Reader’s Ride: The Flinders Ranges, SA

This entry is part 42 of 24 in the series Adventure Rider Issue #3

The Flinders Ranges in South Australia are majestic at anytime, but after the winter rains around the start of spring they’re especially spectacular. It was the ideal destination for a couple of old blokes with Tiger’s tales.

Both Pete and I had bought 800XC Tigers and we’d been hanging out for an opportunity to get them up into the Flinders for a tour.

It only took a few weeks and we had about 15 riders involved. Some had tipped in for two days and others for almost a week. Pete worked on some tracks and trails north from our hometown of Gawler, while I organised an overnighter at the Yunta pub and a few nights at the very moto-friendly Angorichina Tourist Village (Ango) in the Parachilna Gorge with hosts Dave and Caroline. We reckoned that was Flinders central!

Nailed it

Prep consisted of new tyres, filters, brake pads and anything else that might need attention or a once over, a new set of panniers and bags for me, and before we knew it, we were off.

Talk about brass-monkey weather. The first morning was bloody freezing and the heated grips got a huge workout as we skirted the Barossa and headed for Pete’s favourite coffee at the Truro bakery. We were soon out in the wide, open spaces and heading through some very scenic countryside.

Big Jace scored a flat tyre on the KTM640 thanks to a nail straight through everything. Everyone chipped in with great advice on how to best change a tube on the side of the road and watched him sweat it out. My bag of tricks helped out with a couple of full-sized tyre irons and a rubber mallet.

“Could ya work a little quicker there, Jace?” we encouraged. “The pub’s not that far away.”

Jace sped up, sweated some more, and it was soon done.

‘Steel Pony’ Pete tried to convince Neil and Fritz he was cut-off by a truck…out in the middle of nowhere.

The blokes roughing it with meats, cheeses, dips and mates.

The cup runneth over

Yunta pub came into view around beer o’clock, so we stashed the bikes, bolted to the front bar, and later tucked into a great country-pub meal with lashings of meat, veggies and gravy (man food).

The trucks and trains travelling within metres of my bedroom window reminded me we were alongside the Barrier Highway, and after a patchy few hours sleep we were up, fed at the local servo and heading north to the Flinders.

Just before brekky I came out to the bikes and saw a dribble below the clutch on the Tiger. It looked like something was leaking and my heart skipped a beat. Then I spied an old workmate, Swannie.

He’d joined us on his XTZ660, and he couldn’t control his teenage-girl-like sniggering as I looked around for a culprit. The silly bugger had strategically poured some coffee on my bike to worry me.

He knows I’ll get him back, and the smell of burnt Nescafé for the rest of the day helped maintain the rage.

Swannie on his XTZ660 Ténéré. He tried the ol’ “dribble some coffee on the Tiger so it looks like the clutch is leaking” trick.

Beer o’clock at Blinman pub.

Fired

Ruins, lookouts, windmills and trails all swept past as we headed for Wilpena, and the Flinders was looking as green and beautiful as ever when we finally made it to the Blinman pub for a quiet ale. The cold beverage set us up for the run to the Parachilna Gorge and the 45-bed dorm which was to be our home for a few nights. Dave had organised firewood, so a roaring fire kept us warm as we enjoyed ales, dinner, more ales and some fine Barossa Shiraz.

The next couple of nights at Ango were glorious. The big fire backed up with good blokes, plenty of refreshments and tucker to make us all feel very much at home.

Crews control

Over the next few days we hit some fantastic Flinders tracks; the string of Public Access Routes around the region, the Gorge Roads – both north and south of Blinman and Parachilna – and anything else we could find, especially the very beautiful Moralana Scenic Drive.

Lunches were at Wilpena, cold beers at the Parachilna pub and steaks with veg around the Village fire pit – it was bloody awesome.

There was a mix of XTZ660 Ténérés, DR650s, a KTM or two, a X-Challenge, a WR250R with all the touring bits, and another old mate of mine, Bernie, who trucked his WR250F up there to try to get some enduro practice. Me, I was lovin’ the 800XC.

One serious complication to our ‘old man’s trip’ was bloody Greg ‘Kipo’ Kipling from Port Augusta. He’d been out and gathered a few mates to join us on their minibikes – 400s and 450s – but they stayed at the Blinman pub, about 17km from us (phew).

It got worse for them when one of them put the intended trip on Facebook and Kipo soon had an almost unmanageable headache to look after. In typical Kipo style he did it with a smile.

Angorichina Tourist Village.

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Kipo’s group rode out of Port Augusta and had been going all of a few minutes when one bloke left the track and attempted to break a vertical stardropper in half with his bike and upper body. The ambos and local copper turned up to sort out the broken bones and bits of steel, and as it turned out, Kipo’s friendly face (usually described as ‘a busted arse’) convinced the cop to stay and look after the bent and bruised bike and wait for the backup vehicle so everyone else could take off and enjoy the ride.

Pete (left) and the author soaking up the Flinders on their Tigers.

And you wonder why Kipo’s a real-estate salesman?

Anyway, his charm worked and the copper did the right thing, waving everyone off with a smile while he stuck around to look after the bike. No-one was dead, so there were grins all round, and many beers and pizzas were consumed at the Blinman pub that night.

It was a good crew.

Quornie

Our lot started to drift off back to suburban Adelaide on the Sunday, leaving a few to make the trip to Quorn the next day so the local Mayor could officiate at our induction as full members of the Quorn Schnitzel Club.

Official business and photographs were over when the group tucked into the reds supplied by the Mayor (another reason to invite him).

A freezing-cold night left ice on the bikes in the morning, and the only way to fix that was with egg-andbacon sangers at the café. It was just like camping.

Fritz negotiating the backstreets of the Flinders.

Howling wind and rain covered the trip home and I had a smile a mile wide all the way as I reflected on great mates, both on the bikes and at the establishments we’d visited. The ride had covered almost 1700km of rich scenery and fine adventure riding. We might not have been camping, but we had a whole lot of fun, and at least there’s no flies in our coffee and dirt in our dinner.

Even being accompanied by a Ural with a fridge in the sidecar filled with drinks, cheeses, dips and sliced meats is a little hard to take at times.

But not too hard.

Meggsie and Trev enjoying the scenery.